


guaranteed to blow your mind

by Iselmyr



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Biting, Crossdressing, Crying, M/M, Pet Names, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Wall Sex, like So Much crying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-30 22:04:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19412317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iselmyr/pseuds/Iselmyr
Summary: Aziraphale has decided to break out the Big Guns to seduce Crowley....He could probably have started smaller. Crowley is a little overwhelmed. But he's definitely not complaining.





	guaranteed to blow your mind

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Killer Queen, because what on earth else was I going to use to title this fic?
> 
> Thanks for development feedback to FerusDomina, and thanks always to my darling StormyDaze for enthusiastic cheerleading <3

Crowley turns to see Aziraphale in a lace top, fishnets, and a miniskirt made effectively even shorter by a pattern of cutouts around the hem, and actually whimpers.

“Fuck, angel, you can't do this to me,” he says, stepping backwards. “I want to fuck you through the fucking wall.” His eyes are glued to Aziraphale’s thighs and he can’t tell if he thinks the words or says them.

“Well, come on then,” Aziraphale says, and he’s raising his eyebrows in invitation, but Crowley doesn’t see it because his eyes are somewhere significantly lower.

“What?”

“Fuck me through the wall.” Aziraphale pairs this statement with a wiggle of his hips.

Crowley makes a strangled noise as his self control breaks and he lunges forward, pinning Aziraphale against the doorframe. “Fuck, angel, you look like Lust itself,” he mutters, somewhat garbled as he kisses Aziraphale’s neck. “’m not good at resisting temptation, I can't survive not touching you looking like this, talking like this. Can’t stay away if you don’t push me back.”

“You don't need to,” Aziraphale says, and puts Crowley’s hand on his thigh, under his skirt.

Crowley whimpers again. “Gonna kill me, angel, fuck,” but his hands are moving, one creeping up Aziraphale’s thigh and the other tracing over his chest through the sheer lace that hides just enough to tantalize. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, and it’s almost a sob.

Aziraphale’s hand slides under Crowley’s shirt, fingers tracing over the scales at the base of his spine, and Crowley shudders. “Not so beautiful as you,” Aziraphale says, and digs the nails of his other hand into Crowley’s hips to pull them against his. “Looking at you, temptation walking, all these centuries, the way you dress, the way you move.”

Crowley’s teeth sink into Aziraphale’s neck involuntarily when their hips meet, and he removes them quickly. “Sorry, angel, didn’t mean to, sorry.” He licks at the wound, feeling dizzy and drunk and disbelieving. This has to be a dream.

Aziraphale shivers. “I would appreciate it if you bit me more, actually,” he says breathlessly, squirming against Crowley. Crowley clutches at him convulsively and sinks his teeth into Aziraphale’s collarbone through the lace. Aziraphale lets out a breathy gasp and his hips jerk forward. “ _Yes_ , fuck.”

Crowley sinks his nails into Aziraphale’s thigh and yanks him hard against himself. “I’m dreaming,” he mumbles into Aziraphale’s neck between licks and bites. “I’m dreaming and I never want to wake up.”

“I’m real, I’m here, I— _oh_ ,” Aziraphale is more incoherent by the moment, his hands both underneath Crowley’s clothing now, running back and forth over his skin and scales like he can’t get enough. “ _Crowley, please_ ,” he says, breathy and desperate.

“Anything you want, angel,” Crowley says, and it’s half a prayer. “Anything, angel, Aziraphale, I’m yours, anything.”

Aziraphale tilts his head to breathe directly into Crowley’s ear and whispers, “Fuck me into the wall, Crowley.”

Crowley’s whimper is even closer to a sob this time, and both his hands are between Aziraphale’s thighs now, ripping apart the fishnets. “Can’t— angel I can’t go slow and gentle like this, I can’t, I’m sorry,” he whispers as he fumbles with the fly of his trousers.

“I want you to be rough,” Aziraphale says, and sinks his teeth into Crowley’s ear, and there’s a loud tearing sound as Crowley gives up on the fastenings of his trousers and rips them open by main force.

Crowley gestures lube into place with a clumsy, hurried miracle, and then he’s sinking into Aziraphale with a sob, his face pressed into his shoulder. “Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale,” he’s pleading, trembling, desperately trying to hold still.

Aziraphale destroys his efforts by rolling his hips into him with a filthy groan, sinking his nails into Crowley’s arse. “Fuck, Crowley,” he pants, and his hands are shaking as well. “Feel so perfect inside me, you’re so perfect, wanted you so long.”

Crowley’s arms clutch convulsively around Aziraphale, crushing him to his chest, and he can no longer keep himself from moving, from pulling back and slamming his hips forward to seat himself inside Aziraphale to the hilt and knock Aziraphale into the wall. Once he’s moved, he cannot still himself again, and he’s weeping, thrusting himself desperately into Aziraphale like if he tries hard enough he can pour all of himself into his skin. “You feel like Heaven, angel, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you,” he murmurs into Aziraphale’s flesh, writes his devotion into every atom of their bodies.

“I love you,” Aziraphale pants, thrusting back against Crowley, his nails scrabbling against Crowley’s skin for purchase, to ground himself. His eyes are falling closed with the overload of sensation, and he keeps forcing them open, so he can see Crowley, even if it’s only his his shoulder or his ear or his hair, it’s _Crowley_. He wants his sight filled with Crowley as much as his body is, all of them one flesh, one being, body and mind and everything within.

“Anything you want, Aziraphale, always, yours, anything.” Crowley is shaking, his thrusts sharp and erratic and desperate, his hands never stilling, roaming over every part of Aziraphale he can reach, drinking him in, like he has to learn every atom of him by touch.

“Just you, always you, I love you, you’re all I need, Crowley, fuck, only you, you’re everything, you’re perfect,” Aziraphale gasps out, trying to press himself against every inch of Crowley he can reach, and Crowley comes with a shuddering jerk, a hoarse cry, and a wave of emotion that brings Aziraphale over the edge as well. They stand in place, trembling, for long moments, Crowley sobbing more than breathing, Aziraphale’s hands slowly steadying as they rub Crowley’s back. “Perfect,” he whispers into Crowley’s ear, “you’re perfect, you’re perfect.” Crowley is shaking still, and Aziraphale tenderly strokes his hair back out of his face. “Come on, dear one, follow me.”

Crowley nods obediently against Aziraphale’s chest and lets him ease them apart. Aziraphale keeps an arm around his waist, reassuringly present, and leads him carefully through the door and across the bedroom to a bathroom that may or may not have been actually built into the premises at any point, where an improbably large tub is steaming gently.

“Come on, sweetheart, let’s get out of these clothes and into the bath,” he murmurs, and Crowley looks down at his clothes rather helplessly. Aziraphale takes pity on him and miracles them across the room into a pile, along with his own. Crowley breathes in sharply, but Aziraphale focuses on leading him forward and coaxing him into the bath, and not on how beautiful and wrecked and sinful they both look, torn and mussed and flushed and panting and forgetting they don’t actually need to breathe.

He eases them both into the water, hot enough to be soothing but not so hot it takes more than a moment to adjust to stepping into—he can always miracle it hotter once they’re in, after all. He sits down, his back against the side of the tub, and guides Crowley to a seat between his legs, where he can wrap his arms around him and run a wet flannel gently over him and reassure him that he’s still there.

Crowley twists sideways slightly to press his face against Aziraphale’s shoulder, and his breathing is still uneven but the trembling is slowly bleeding out of his limbs. Aziraphale holds him close, gently stroking his hair, and humming whatever tune pops into his head. “My very dear,” he whispers.

Crowley shivers again, pressing closer. “Never did anything to deserve a dream this good,” he whispers, and his voice is hesitant and rough.

“Not a dream, dearest,” Aziraphale murmurs. “And you deserve every good thing. You’re so good, sweetheart, my darling, you deserve everything.”

Crowley shudders in his arms and Aziraphale realizes that he’s weeping again. All Aziraphale can do is keep holding him close, keep being there.

“Unforgivable,” Crowley chokes out, and Aziraphale’s heart breaks.

“Never, Crowley, never. I’m here. I’m sorry it took me so long. I’ll never leave again, darling, I’m yours. As long as you want me, I’m here.”

“Forever,” Crowley whispers. “Eternity.”

“Eternity,” Aziraphale says, pressing his lips against Crowley’s hair. “Till the stars crumble and beyond.”

**Author's Note:**

> “I love you. I will love you till the stars crumble, which is a less idle threat than is usual to lovers on parting.” Couldn't resist referencing a beautiful line (from a man in love who is not mortal) from The Hero and the Crown by Robin McKinley, my favorite book.  
>   
> You can find me on tumblr, if you so desire, at [saints-and-demons-preserve-us](https://saints-and-demons-preserve-us.tumblr.com/). I am always open for yelling about Good Omens!


End file.
